


Three Words

by Deifire



Series: Eerie: Ten Years Later [12]
Category: Eerie Indiana
Genre: Bickering, Consent Issues, Desk Sex, Flagrant Violations of Office Policy, Future Fic, M/M, Sex Pollen, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 08:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/pseuds/Deifire
Summary: "I need you," Dash admits, quietly."Those," says Marshall, "are not the three words I need to hear."Fuck.





	Three Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the _Eerie, Indiana_ community's Sex Pollen Fandom Tropes Challenge.

"Please?"

It's not a word Dash lets pass his lips very often, but isn't sure how much more of this he can take. He feels like he's burning from the inside out and he's so hard it _hurts_. 

"No."

Fuck. Even the sound of Marshall's voice, its tone betraying no pity, is enough to make him shudder. He hates that he's responding to him this way. Hates that this is just an hyper-exaggerated version of the way he always responds to Marshall.

It's not like his associate doesn't know what this stuff does to people, either. He's the one who brought it into the office in the first place, which makes this almost entirely his fault. Still, he stays on the other side of the locked door that leads to their upstairs apartment, no doubt with a smug expression on his face, listening to Dash come completely undone.

Every sensation is amplified. Dash takes off his boots and too-tight jeans, no longer able to stand the agony of the rough denim against his skin. The weight of his coat joins them on the floor. He pulls his shirt over his head next and even the movement of the cotton blend over his chest is enough to make him gasp. His hands pause at his hips as he debates with himself whether the tiny scraps of dignity the silk boxers afford him are worth the torment of the way they cling to him.

"So that's it, Teller?" he yells. "You're just going to let me die like this?"

"Maybe. Your choice."

"Fuck!"

"I just told you. No." 

Unfortunately, the dying part is not an exaggeration. It won't happen right away, not even within the next few hours, but if he doesn't find release eventually, Dash knows this _will_ kill him. It's the way this stupid stuff works.

"Why?" he asks. Meaning, Marshall's not a killer even by less-than-benign neglect, so why is he making Dash suffer like this? And for that matter, why didn't Marshall fully warn him about the pollen to begin with? Or at least make sure Dash was paying attention when and if he did?

"Maybe I'm not in the mood," comes the remorseless reply. Again, Dash can't help but shudder. 

"Fine," he snaps. "It doesn't have to be you. I'll find someone else."

"Okay." Dash can almost hear the shrug in Marshall's voice. "Go for it."

There's no way he actually means it, but for a brief moment Dash considers it in earnest. Going outside and offering himself to the first willing stranger. Unlocking the door, flipping the sign from CLOSED (and hung at an angle that's code for Simon not to disturb them except in the most extreme of emergencies) to OPEN. Letting anyone who comes in— _everyone_ who comes in, if they want—have their way with him. 

The idea attracts him almost, but not quite, as much as it repulses him. He curses himself, not for the first time, for the fact that he's only ever wanted that kind of touch from one person. 

"Please?" He tries again. "I can't…not by myself, I can't…"

Which Marshall already knows. But he can't possibly understand the sheer agony of how it _feels_. Touching himself does nothing to relieve Dash's desperate need. His own hands on his own body only create an unpleasant, vaguely sickening feedback loop in the pleasure centers of his brain. If he wants to survive this, he needs someone else to get him off.

"I told you," says Marshall, remorseless as ever. "I'm not your sex toy. I'm not something you just can count on being to able to use when you accidentally dose yourself with weird pollen."

Dash swallows the urge to point out how unfair it is that he's making it sound like this has ever happened more than one time. 

"What do you want?" he asks instead.

"Say it."

Dash bows his head and tries to focus on anything but the way his cock aches and the sweat trickling off his flushed and shivering skin.

"I need you," he admits, quietly.

"Those," says Marshall, "are not the three words I need to hear."

Fuck.

"I want you," he tries next. Then, " _Only_ you, okay? I've only ever wanted you. You know that." That's a lot more than three words and also something Dash knows he's going regret admitting out loud for the rest of his life, but he's hoping it's enough to appeal to Marshall's compassionate side and drive home just how desperate the situation truly is.

But Marshall's compassion for the desperate and unfortunate has never quite extended to Dash the same way it does to the rest of the world. "That's nice," he says. Then, "Three words. It's not that hard."

It is, though, thinks Dash as he grits his teeth. That's the whole problem.

Dash considers for a moment letting death take him instead. It's not the most humiliating demise he's ever imagined for himself, and the thought of Marshall's guilt alone is almost enough to make it worth it. 

Unfortunately, he knows he'll give in before the end. Knows that before long he'll be on his knees, begging, and as always, giving Marshall whatever the hell he wants. It's just a matter of how much he's willing to let himself suffer before it happens. 

He swallows. Closes his eyes. Crosses his arms and and then uncrosses them when the sensation becomes too much. Steels himself.

"I was wrong," he says. It comes out as almost a whisper.

There's the click of a lock being turned. Then the creak of the door and the sound of his lover's footsteps crossing the room.

"What was that?" Every hair on Dash's body stands up at the sound of Marshall's voice so close behind him.

"I was wrong!" Dash repeats, shouting this time. He nearly cries in relief as Marshall's arms wrap around his waist. Marshall's warm lips are on his neck and Dash tries not be beg as he presses himself back against the long, hard length of him.

Then Marshall's hot breath is at Dash's ear. He nips at the lobe once, gently, and Dash lets a small moan escape through his teeth.

"And?" Marshall whispers

"You were right." That earns Dash a bruising kiss on the side of his neck and fingertips slipping just under his waistband.

"And?" 

Dash continues, practically babbling. "I never should have messed with the stuff on your desk when you said not to and I especially never should have messed with something labeled 'Sex Pollen - Do Not Touch' and some things are way too dangerous to try and sell on the black market no matter how much money I can make us and how much we need it…and…ah…you tried to warn me…and I…oh my god, Marshall…oh…fuck…" 

It's impossible to breathe or think, much less form words anymore, when Marshall's stroking his cock like that.

"You're goddamn right you were wrong." Marshall stops what he's doing and before Dash can react, spins him around, pulling him close as he brings their lips together. It's a brutal kiss, with tongue and teeth, and Dash responds like he's drowning and Marshall is his only source of oxygen. 

"You're insane," Marshall says when he breaks it off, and Dash almost cries from the loss of contact until Marshall puts a hand on his chest. "You're greedy. You have no sense of boundaries. Or self-preservation." With each statement takes a step forward until he's got Dash backed up against the wall. "I think you're only alive because of sheer luck and because for some reason I put up with you." 

And then Marshall's kissing him again. Dash throws his arms around his neck and gasps as Marshall reaches around behind him and lifts him up. He parts his legs just enough to let Marshall slip a knee between them and grinds against him, pretty sure he's openly sobbing now, with need and with relief, and that Marshall can taste it in their kisses, but he can't bring himself to break away.

He nearly whimpers when Marshall sets him down again.

"Hold still," he gets in response.

And before Dash can react, Marshall drops to his knees. He divests Dash of his boxers and locks eyes with him before taking his cock into his mouth and swallowing him whole.

Dash tries—really tries, because the fire still raging under his skin means his life is on the line—to do what he's been told, but he can't help moving, thrusting into his lover's warm, wet mouth as much as the grip he's got on his hips will allow.

And then Marshall does that thing with his tongue.

Dash is pretty sure he blacks out a little as he climaxes, spilling down Marshall's throat.

When comes to, Marshall's straightening up, wiping his mouth. "Better?" he asks.

Dash nods, then shakes his head. The release has taken some of the edge off, but he still can't stop himself from clinging to Marshall, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him with an intensity he can't control. It's an improbably short time before he can feel himself getting hard again, and he groans in sheer frustration.

"Not better enough?" Marshall guesses.

Dash threads his fingers through his associate's long, brown hair, then pulls, forcing him to look him straight in the eyes and read the desperation written there. 

"Fuck me," he growls.

Marshall looks either startled or like he's about to argue, and for a second, Dash thinks this request is going to be met with more demands, but instead Marshall just asks, "Can you make it upstairs?"

Dash shakes his head, and Marshall takes them over to the nearest desk, which is Dash's own. He stops long enough to shove everything out of the way before setting him down on top of it. The computer monitor hits the floor with a sickening crack.

Dash is too far gone to care.

Marshall reaches toward the desk drawers and Dash's stomach sinks when he bypasses the top drawer, where there's some perfectly serviceable lotion, to go straight for the secret compartment where Dash keeps the expensive lube and other emergency supplies for late night violations of the office policy against having sex in it. 

Fuck. 

Marshall's not even pretending to make a secret of the fact he knows his way around Dash's desk. Which means he probably knows all about all the other secret compartments and all the other less legal stuff Dash keeps in them.

Clearly, buying surplus office furniture from city hall has been a waste of money.

Dash allows Marshall to bend him over the desk and slowly work a slick finger inside him. He makes a few small noises of protest, not at this violation of his body, which is Marshall's for the taking anyway, but of his basic right to privacy as a full and supposedly trusted member of this association, one who's never given anybody more than eight or nine reasons to doubt his integrity.

"Yeah," Marshall says. "We need to talk. Particularly about the cursed dagger and that really fascinating snow globe you've got that isn't a snow globe. And everything in the blue notebook. But now isn't exactly the time."

"You…hypocritical…smug…insufferable…bastard…" Dash manages to force out between inarticulate noises as Marshall works him open. It isn't the time, and his current position combined the way he can barely think means he's already lost the argument anyway, but he feels the need to offer at least token resistance to the person who's just been lecturing him about not touching stuff on _his_ desk.

It earns him a sharp smack on his ass.

"It's not the same thing at all, really," says Marshall, as though he can read Dash's mind. "And just remember, I'm a smug bastard who can go all night if I have to."

Dash can't quite hold back a moan at that one.

"I know," Marshall says with faux sympathy, as he crooks his fingers in a way that makes Dash's vision go dark and leaves him gasping. 

"Fine," Dash says. "Take...everything." He's not just talking about the stuff in his desk and they both know it.

"As many times as I need to." It's both a threat and a promise.

Dash almost comes a second time when Marshall does take him, entering him in one smooth motion. He fucks him slowly at first, then harder and faster as Dash writhes underneath him, pleading and urging him on. 

It's almost, but not quite as intense as Dash is expecting. "I don't want to hurt you," Marshall whispers. "Not yet." Not because he _won't_ if Dash asks him to and means it, but because they've got a long way to go yet before this stuff is out of his system. 

_All night_ , Dash thinks, wondering if it's true, and not sure whether he's shuddering in anticipation or fear.

And then Marshall moves, changing the angle of his thrusts.

Dash's climax this time is one of the most intense he's ever experienced.

He regains full consciousness to Marshall leaving a trail of kisses down his spine. Dash moans a little and arches into the sensation, and Marshall rolls him over so that he's lying on his back on the hard mahogany. 

"Better?" he asks again.

"A little," Dash admits. The fire under his skin is nowhere near out, but it's also not quite the inferno it was two orgasms ago.

"You're going to be okay," Marshall says, caressing his cheek and brushing the hair out of his eyes. "I promise. You're going to regret this in the morning and I'll understand if you never want to see me again, but you're going to be okay."

And Dash rolls his eyes even as he shifts position and lifts his hips to let Marshall enter him again. "Please," he says, voice dripping with as much sarcasm as his situation will allow, because hasn't Marshall been listening? There's no force on earth—no weird aphrodisiac, no pain, no thwarted scheme, nothing he can ever do—that can make Dash never want to see him again. He's only ever wanted Marshall. Dash _is_ Marshall's, body and soul. Whether he likes it or not and no matter how fucking obnoxious he find him.

He tries, through a haze of lust, to explain this. 

What comes out are three words: "I hate you."

And Marshall smiles. It's a smile for which Dash would die a thousand deaths, surrender a thousand fortunes. 

"I hate you, too," he replies.

And for a while at least, there are no more words between them.


End file.
